Scarlet
by Christina Simon
Summary: An original look at Sark’s early teenage years. Doesn’t follow the clues from Endgame.
1. Part One

Title: Scarlet  
  
Author: Christina  
  
Email: miss_scarlett89@hotmail.com  
  
Rating: PG to PG-13. because I'm a bit young to be writing smut : )  
  
Feedback: I would love nothing more than to have a whole page of reviews. : )  
  
Summary: An original look at Sark's early teenage years. Doesn't follow the clues from Endgame.  
  
'Ship: None.  
  
Distribution: Just ask.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Alias, Sark, Irina, or Khasinau. I am only a fourteen-year-old girl with nothing to do and no money because I have spent it all on the first season DVD.  
  
A/N: Thanks so much to rwysydney the beta and giving me the support!  
  
Part One:  
  
I hear her enter the room, even though she tries to be silent. She gently shakes me, trying to awaken me.  
  
"Andrew.Andy." She notices me looking at her and smiles.  
  
"Happy birthday, love."  
  
I give her half a smile. "Don't you think I'm getting a bit old for this, Mum?"  
  
She pretends to look hurt.  
  
I sigh. "Well, then, this year was the last year."  
  
"All right. Now." She reveals a green box she'd had hidden in one hand, and gives it to me. My birthday present.  
  
I tear off the paper, brush back the tissue paper and find-  
  
"A watch," says my mother. "It belonged to your grandfather."  
  
I carefully rotate it about. Silver. I slip it on my wrist. Large. My mother has probably saved for weeks to repair and clean it. It is in perfect condition.  
  
"Thank you, Mum. I'll keep it safe, don't worry."  
  
"I know you will." She kisses me on the top of my head. "Now get ready for school before you're late." She leaves.  
  
She works as a maid from seven in the morning to six at night. A few of her clients are my classmates' parents. A fact I've kept well-hidden.  
  
* * *  
  
I have always kept to myself at school, staying away from the other boys and their great ambitions to play rugby for Britain. I have nothing against the sport, however.  
  
Any attraction I have had for any girl so far has been purely physical. I have yet to meet someone with both looks and a personality.  
  
I have other things to occupy my mind.  
  
* * *  
  
I make sure my mother is asleep before going to my bureau, removing the bottom drawer, turning it over, and carefully untaping the documents I have hidden underneath.  
  
Clothed in black, I slip out the back with the documents under my jacket.  
  
I walk unnoticed, away from the houses, into the town, and end looking up at the worn lettering of an old warehouse.  
  
The lock on the back door is ridiculously easy to bypass, and within ten seconds the door has swung open.  
  
I carefully survey my surroundings as I approach a pile of crates stacked in the corner.  
  
"Who's there?" asks thick, Russian voice.  
  
"Your contact," I say. "I have some information you may find useful."  
  
"I see. You are late."  
  
"I had other business to attend to." If homework counts.  
  
"Come and sit."  
  
I step in.  
  
There is a chair waiting for me, across from a man that I can only describe as bushy. Vassilii Savanoff. I sit.  
  
"What do you have?"  
  
I take the documents from my jacket.  
  
"Information on the Hughlett-Garner Building, as promised. Blueprints, type of security system- and the codes to bypass it. It should be enough."  
  
Savanoff takes the documents. He stares at them. Then at me.  
  
"Just how old are you, Mr. ."  
  
"Sark," I say. It is the name my contact gave me, the name he advised me to use in my dealings.  
  
"Fifteen, sixteen? Your contact did not mention that you would be so young. This is excellent."  
  
I wait while he rifles through them. His age estimate is inaccurate. I have been fourteen for close to sixteen hours.  
  
When he has reached the last page, I say, "I was promised a certain amount by your contact."  
  
"Ah, yes." He reaches down by his side and draws out a small silver case. "Fifty thousand pounds." He gives it to me and I open it. I check to make sure it is all there. Then I hold up one note. It doesn't look counterfeit.  
  
I put it away and quietly close the case. Then I stand to go. "One more thing," I say. "I would appreciate it if you gave me back my watch."  
  
Savanoff laughs, reaches in his coat and removes it.  
  
"Only after you give me mine."  
  
Simultaneously, we toss the watches.  
  
"I hope to see you again, Mr. Sark. It was a pleasure doing business with you."  
  
"I only wish I could share that sentiment." I begin walking towards the back door.  
  
I'm not sure what it is. Maybe a sound, a shadow. Something tells me get down on the floor and it's a good thing too as a bullet flies directly through the spot where I'd been standing less than a second before.  
  
Somehow I pull myself up, and as I sprint away, back home, Savanoff's laugh rings in my ears.  
  
* * *  
  
I can't identify an exact moment or an exact reason why I got involved in these activities. All I know is that a few years ago, I was young, ambitious, and poor. Desperate for a challenge and a few extra pounds.  
  
People needed information, so I found it and gave it to them.  
  
"Mr. Ellison, will you come see me for a moment?" The voice of my teacher jerks me from my thoughts.  
  
I go to her desk, and she points at my math paper with a red marker.  
  
"Why have you written 'Andrew Sark' at the top of this paper?"  
  
I freeze for a second, staring at it.  
  
"I am assuming it is yours."  
  
"Oh, yes." I say, snapping out of it. "Absent-mindedness, I suppose. We- my mother and I thought that maybe we could go to Sark next holiday." Absent- mindedness, honestly. More like sheer stupidity. I curse myself as I go back to my seat.  
  
I think about the future. I will travel the world in style, with black convertibles, tailored suits, fine wines, and everything I want. I will be rich, and respected, and nothing will stand in my way.  
  
No one notices the slight smile on my face.  
  
* * *  
  
After school, behind an old barn, I take a bus to central London to meet with my contact, whom I trust enough to deposit my earnings in a hidden account.  
  
In Switzerland.  
  
It totals to more than half a million pounds.  
  
His name is Khasinau, he tells me.  
  
He has been my mentor, in a way, giving me advice, showing me techniques in self-control and dealing with clients, giving me access to technology I need that I would not have otherwise.  
  
He gives me the impression that he works alone, independently, but somehow I feel he is a part of something bigger.  
  
* * *  
  
The next morning, I scan the paper, looking for news of a break-in. I don't expect there to be much, and I don't expect it to be entirely truthful. The government has it in their best interests not to tell the public everything. Especially since the Hughlett- Garner building contains some of their most vital military weapons.  
  
Instead, I read that eight men were apprehended and identified after attempting to break into the building. And, as I scan the names, Savanoff's does not appear.  
  
I stare at the article in disbelief. This is the first time my intel was incorrect. Perhaps a number was off in the security deactivation code.  
  
Whatever the case, I have earned fifty thousand pounds in exchange for nothing. Which would be pleasing, really, if Savanoff was not at large.  
  
And was not feeling slightly vengeful.  
  
I sigh, fold the paper, and lean back.  
  
My mother senses my sudden uneasiness. "Is something wrong?" she asks, taking a sip of coffee.  
  
I shake my head absently.  
  
There is no telling what this man will choose to do. If he believes there was a simple error on my part, I may be abducted, tortured, and set free. Which is probably the best- case scenario. If he thinks that I deliberately gave him false intel.  
  
"Andrew, you're pale. Is there some sort of virus going around?"  
  
"I- I don't think so. It's just sort of. cold in here." I can't concentrate enough to invent some plausible explanation.  
  
This isn't me. I am used to being in control. Not like some agitated tiger, pacing around in a cage, or a small animal, trapped in the corner. For the first time, I feel. afraid.  
  
My mother says, "If you're sure," but still looks concerned.  
  
And inexplicably, I fill up with complete love and compassion for her. I feel that I must reassure her, hug her and tell her that she means the world to me and that I'm sorry if I ever disappointed her, like I'll never be able to ever, ever again.  
  
But I don't.  
  
Instead, she gives me her customary kiss on the cheek, picks up her bag, and walks out.  
  
And I am left alone in the house.  
  
I have never noticed.  
  
Never noticed. how silent it is.  
  
Damn it, I can't stop thinking about it all! I jump up, nearly knocking my chair over, and dash to the window and look out.  
  
Everything is normal. Nothing unusual outside.  
  
I can hear my watch ticking.  
  
I have to get out of here.  
  
* * *  
  
All through school, I cannot focus, even though I normally can. I keep looking out, positive that I will see Savanoff's ugly face staring back at me.  
  
* * *  
  
I walk home.  
  
For the first time, I would rather be with someone, instead of alone.  
  
And I get a feeling.  
  
Maybe, to the right of me.  
  
Casually, I glance over my shoulder.  
  
No one.  
  
I continue.  
  
There it is again.  
  
Anxiously, I look back.  
  
No one- or maybe- but.  
  
Someone is following me. I know it.  
  
I duck into the nearest shop and pretend to look at the candy prices while I try, TRY to think of what the hell to do.  
  
My first instinct is to call my mother. Ask her to come home early. That I think I might be coming down with something after all.  
  
I have no money to call. And I don't know where she is. She could be at any house, anywhere in town.  
  
I am being paranoid, I tell myself. Or am I?  
  
I return to my house as quickly as I can.  
  
I bolt everything.  
  
I know it will have no effect, but the result is somewhat comforting.  
  
I try to read.  
  
I keep glancing out the window.  
  
* * *  
  
I nearly jump when I hear the key turn in the lock.  
  
She's back.  
  
I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.  
  
I feel safe again.  
  
Dinner passes normally.  
  
And just before I leave for bed, I get, again, the feeling I had this morning. an overwhelming, overpowering gratitude and love for my mother. The urge to give her a hug and just thank her.  
  
But again, I don't.  
  
"Night, Mum."  
  
"Night, Andy."  
  
And I close the door.  
  
* * *  
  
Late at night, I lie, half-awake, half-asleep.  
  
I hear my mother, walking back to her room. She's been up for awhile, doing some sewing and reading. It's nearly one. Must have been really busy.  
  
I hear the faint creak of the bed as she settles in.  
  
It's hard, really, to think about anything. when it's so peaceful.  
  
* * *  
  
It's the weekend.  
  
The sun is coming through my window in big, long streaks.  
  
For awhile, I take it in, my mind free of thought.  
  
Then it hits me.  
  
My mother's footsteps aren't that heavy.  
  
Shit.  
  
I bolt out, thrust open my door, and I hear it slam against the wall as I sprint to her room.  
  
Once near the handle, I reach for it, ready to yank it out if I must. And I freeze.  
  
Open it, my brain urges me. Hurry!  
  
But my hand won't respond.  
  
Finally, with both hands, I slowly, shakily turn the handle. And I pull.  
  
She looks peaceful, lying on her back, with a slight smile, as if she is having a wonderful dream. In fact, she looks completely normal.  
  
Except for the single bullet wound squared right in the center of her forehead.  
  
A trace of scarlet runs down from the spot and onto her cheek.  
  
There is a small piece of paper lying on her stomach. I pick it up.  
  
In the future, you will be wise to leave adults' business to adults. You have been warned.  
  
I stare through the words, through the paper.  
  
Then I tear it in half.  
  
Twice.  
  
Three times.  
  
Four.  
  
Then I throw the tiny scraps away.  
  
I ring the police.  
  
"This is Andrew Ellison, of Hobson Road. I've just found my mother.sh. she's been shot. Through the head."  
  
I go to my room. I sit, silent, eyes out the window, and only when I see the cars pulling up beside the house do I wipe the tears away. 


	2. Part Two

Part Two:  
  
They have no idea.  
  
No idea as to why an apparently experienced assassin would wish to shoot Annie Ellison.  
  
My mother.  
  
I may as well have pulled the trigger.  
  
* * *  
  
They have placed me in an orphanage.  
  
They are searching for relatives. As far as I know, both of my parents were only children. My grandparents are long dead.  
  
They are trying to locate my father. His name is Colin Reilly.  
  
He left when I was five. We lived in Galway then.  
  
We tied him down, I suppose, my mother and I. He was always restless.  
  
After that, we came here. Where my mother was from.  
  
And now, here I am. Being spoken to like a child, eating cold soup and hard bread, being deaf to my own thoughts as the screams of the younger ones reach my ears.  
  
How long will it last?  
  
They cannot trace it back to Savanoff. He will be too elusive.  
  
If he is traced, then chances are, I will be, too.  
  
And as much as I care about my mother, I cannot be exposed as a criminal.  
  
But if I am held here for two more years: Will it really matter?  
  
A prison is the same as this.  
  
Suddenly, I remind myself. I am Sark.  
  
* * *  
  
Two A.M. I slip down to the second floor hall.  
  
One vacant office on the very end of the hallway contains a window, large enough for me. I had devoted the afternoon and evening to exploration.  
  
Honestly, I think, as I insert my pin into the knob, I don't understand why people bother with locks.  
  
The door softly clicks open. I peer inside- no one- then quickly go in and shut the door behind me.  
  
I twist the window latch, and it opens just wide enough for me to squeeze through.  
  
I know that the bricks of the building are uneven here, so I put one leg out and find the first ridge. Then the second. Third ridge. Fourth. As I make my way down, I reflect on the simplicity of it, and wonder why I am the only one to have discovered it.  
  
My foot hits the cement hard.  
  
The only telephone within the building is in the director's office, and she is prone to working late.  
  
I have come out to use the telephone booth on the other side of the road. With change from my wallet, I make one phone call- to my contact's cell.  
  
"62503047219... Yes, it's me. Emergency. Yes.. He had my mother murdered..I- I've been placed in the Abbott Orphanage, on Oxford- Yes......Right...And I'll be met by you after?......... Good. I'll be ready."  
  
Climbing back up the wall is not nearly as easy. I almost lose my footing several times, and when I reach the open window, I fall through it with a clunk.  
  
I freeze as I hear voices down the hall.  
  
I don't even breathe until I hear their steps down the stairs.  
  
Then, it is back up to the fourth floor, back to the room I share with four others, back to await the outcome of my call.  
  
* * *  
  
My wait lasts two days.  
  
I am summoned after dinner by the director. Her appearance makes it difficult to take her seriously. She has red hair, she's very curvy, and along with her sweaters and baggy pants she is usually wearing dangling earrings and a cheap gold medallion of some kind on her neck.  
  
I am enthusiastically informed that I have a visitor.  
  
The director takes me down to the first floor.  
  
A woman is standing, smiling, waiting for us. She has dark brown hair arranged into an intricate bun at the back of her head. One strand hangs by her face, next to her rectangular glasses. She wears a white shirt and black coat and pants.  
  
And there is an aura about her- graceful. confident. charming. Almost royal.  
  
"Hello, Andrew," she says. Her voice is British- not entirely so- something else underlies it. "I doubt you'll remember me- Angela Barlow- your godmother-"  
  
"Oh, of course," I say, giving off what I hope is a look of recognition. "How could I forget you?" Which isn't much of a stretch.  
  
She steps back a couple of times and surveys me. "You couldn't have been more than nine since I saw you last." She pauses. "I was just- crushed- when I heard about Annie." She actually looks a bit teary, and closes in on me for a hug. "How are you doing?"  
  
"I- I'm all right," I reply. I am captivated by her scent.  
  
"Well, it's all over now," she says quietly. "I've come to take you home. That is-" she releases me and looks at me questioningly.  
  
"Of course- yes, of course, I would love that."  
  
The director's smile grows wider. "Well, this won't be difficult. Ms. Barlow, I'll have you sign a few forms today, the rest will be sent by post and Andy will be free to go by the end of the week." It's Andrew. I am not Andy to you.  
  
"I wondered if it might be possible- since I live rather a distance away, Liverpool, you know- if Andrew could come with me today and you could send the forms to my address."  
  
The director considers, then shakes her head. Her earrings shake. "But he certainly could leave with you today. I'll just find the forms for you- you can fill them out in my office. Andrew, you can go on up and start gathering your things.  
  
"Angela Barlow" pauses before following the director.  
  
"As soon as we leave," she says to me in a low tone, "we'll drive to Birmingham. There's a jet there waiting to take us to Paris. It's too much of a risk the normal way. We'll meet your contact. We have a lot to discuss." I notice that she has dropped her British accent for an American one. Again, something underlies it.  
  
I nod, and she turns and follows the director into her office.  
  
I watch her go, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The door shuts behind them.  
  
I am still staring at the door a minute later. Finally I tear myself away. I rub my forehead.  
  
Then, feeling lighter, I begin to climb the stairs to pack up the few possessions I have left.  
  
I start to wonder, for the thousandth time, what will happen to me once I am out.  
  
For many reasons, it is not a good idea for me to stay in England. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, especially with my account in Switzerland. Maybe my contact has a place for me. Perhaps I could work for him.  
  
None of the others even notice me quietly collecting my things. I haven't shown an interest in knowing them, and so they haven't shown any in me, either.  
  
I'm done already. There is nothing more for me to do except go down and wait for my new guardian.  
  
* * *  
  
There is no conversation during the car ride, or the flight. At the beginning, though, she does speak to someone- presumably Khasinau. She lightly touches one of her diamond earrings and speaks. "I have him. Yes. Of course not." Her lips tighten. "ETA, thirty minutes." She touches the other earring and sighs.  
  
* * *  
  
We are immediately picked up by a black Mercedes, and we arrive behind what looks like a nightclub.  
  
It is only eight or so, and there are only a couple of people sitting at the bar.  
  
She guides me around to the back, up wooden stairs, and down a dark, dim hallway, all the way to the end, where she gives two sharp raps on the door.  
  
I hear my contact's thick, Russian voice call "Enter."  
  
The woman pushes it open, and there is Khasinau, sitting placidly at his desk in a leather seat.  
  
Everything in the room is dark. scarlet.  
  
"Ah, Irina- and Mister Ellison." He motions for us to take seats in two black chairs beside the desk. "I trust," he adds to Irina, "that you ran into no difficulties?"  
  
"I'm careful."  
  
Irina. A perfect name.  
  
Khasinau merely smiles and takes a drink from his glass. He rises and taking out a bottle of wine, he pours out two more and places them down in front of us. Irina takes a sip. I stare at mine.  
  
Irina begins.  
  
"My name is Irina Derevko, and you know Mr. Khasinau. He works directly under me." She hesitates for an instant before continuing.  
  
"I am the head of an organization- not one with allegiance to a particular country or group of countries. With the exception of you, Khasinau, and several other highly placed operatives, everyone refers to me as 'The Man.' It would be inconvenient for me if Irina Derevko is discovered to be alive and active.  
  
"We're involved in trade.mostly for weapons, codes, information. artifacts. Rare items.priceless treasures." Her brown eyes are burning for a moment.then they calm.  
  
"We recruited your father when he was twenty-one."  
  
She what?  
  
She notices my confusion, but goes on. "He was an exceptional operative. he rose high. He spoke of you- you and your mother. He often said how brilliant you were.  
  
"He left your family because he didn't want to continue endangering your lives. He realized that his position might leave you at risk to be kidnapped." Or, I think cynically, he just chose the job over us. Irina's eyes tell me nothing.  
  
"He was killed five years ago in Berlin- car accident.  
  
"We had continued keeping tabs on you, and around that time, we noticed you were obviously involved in something. We discovered you had begun hacking into bank servers and small government offices. Selling security codes. Khasinau offered to quietly step in, make sure you were safe.  
  
"And then came your mother's death.  
  
"We'd been considering employing you as an adult for some time. But things change. With two years training you could be one of our highest- ranked operatives by sixteen.  
  
"We want to give you the opportunity."  
  
My head is spinning with questions, information.  
  
"Artifacts. what kind?" I get out.  
  
I see the spark in Irina's eyes again, but it is Khasinau who speaks.  
  
"Objects, models, manuscripts- all remnants of a man named Milo Rambaldi. He lived in the fifteenth century, he was a prophet."  
  
I shake my head. "I haven't heard of him."  
  
"Few have. His designs and ideas were considered.radical. and so, his work was ignored and forgotten."  
  
"What sort of training would I go through?"  
  
Irina answers. "Self-defense and martial arts, arms usage, endurance for withstanding torture and psychological tests, strategy. that type of thing. Most of it will come naturally to you."  
  
And suddenly, an idea occurs to me. of something I want, badly. I'm sure it could be done. oh, if I could.  
  
"I need assistance," I say. I describe my sudden aspiration. When I finish, Irina says, "I see."  
  
There is a couple seconds silence.  
  
"It's plausible," she finishes. "But I'm going to advise you to wait until you've concluded your training. I understand, but you aren't prepared." And I know she is right.  
  
She changes the subject. "Khasinau tells me you go by 'Mr. Sark.'"  
  
I give her a half smile. "I don't have to-"  
  
"Actually, I was about to suggest that you keep it. That after your 'adoption' is legal and the authorities believe you've adapted, we erase all of your old records, files, photos even. Andrew Ellison will never have existed."  
  
"So. just Sark, then." Just Sark. Mr. Sark. Not Andrew, or Andy or Andrew Ellison. Just Sark. I bite the corner of my lip.  
  
"All right."  
  
Khasinau looks at my untouched glass, and with a trace of amusement he says, "So, Mr. Sark. I see you are not a wine drinker."  
  
I allow myself a grin and admit that no, it's not something I've tried.  
  
"Well, go ahead. It may appeal to you. Chateau Petreuse."  
  
I pick up the glass and take a sip. I let it rest on my tongue for a moment before swallowing.  
  
Not sure how to respond, I say, "It's not bad."  
  
"Yes, expensive wines generally are 'not bad.'"  
  
Irina smiles at me. It is different than the one she wore when we first met. This one is quieter, more subtle, more secretive.  
  
"The car you arrived in is waiting to take you back to the jet," she says. "You'll be flown to Yeniseysk, it's a city in Russia. Our man will meet and brief you. Your training will begin in three days." She watches me as I pick up my suitcase and begin to exit. "Good luck."  
  
The door closes behind me.  
  
Just Sark. 


	3. Part Three

Part Three:  
  
"That went well," comments Khasinau. He speaks in Russian.  
  
Irina takes a sip from her glass and looks thoughtful.  
  
"I still believe retrieving him yourself was too much of a risk, Irina."  
  
"We've been through this." She sounds slightly exasperated. "I took all the necessary precautions. I just felt compelled to see him for myself."  
  
"Your compulsion could have cost us the entire organization." She doesn't answer, so he goes on. "I notice your story contained two discrepancies."  
  
"Those are." Irina has gotten up, and is walking around the room.  
  
"First, Reilly did not die in a 'car accident.'"  
  
She is examining a small bust of Aphrodite. "I hardly think that telling him his father was tortured and killed because of his work would be a good recruitment strategy."  
  
"The other is that in truth, his father was more interested in learning the secrets of the world than staying with his own family."  
  
Her head cocks to one side. "We all have secrets," she says tersely.  
  
He seems almost pleased to have touched a nerve. It is not a common occurrence.  
  
Irina tears her gaze away from the sculpture and looks directly at him. "I'll expect reports on him each week. I want to see his progress, know how he's doing. He'll be fully trained in basics in a year and a half, at best. But he's capable of more. You heard his plan. There'll be an additional six months for more foreign techniques. He could be working directly under you in a matter of weeks."  
  
"You place a great deal of trust in him, Irina."  
  
"Yes." She trails off thoughtfully. "I'll wait to hear from you." 


	4. Part Four

Part Four:  
  
Two Years Later  
  
The sun has set.  
  
In a few hours, Greece will rest.  
  
My feet, enclosed in new Italian leather, guide me into the resplendent lobby of the Hotel Korbos. The Armani suit I wear is a perfect fit. Courtesy of Irina.  
  
It is necessary for me to look and feel older than I am. It gives me an extra boost of self-confidence, the feeling that I can really accomplish what I am about to do.  
  
My mind is on autopilot now- I am aware of nothing but the slight turning of my stomach.  
  
But there is no going back.  
  
The lobby is busy, and I go unnoticed. Irina has assured me that security will not be an issue.  
  
Once outside the door of room 605, third floor, I hesitate for an instant before inserting my key card into the slot. The door clicks, and I am reminded again of my thought long ago, that locks are useless.  
  
It seems like it's been an eternity.  
  
The door swings open noiselessly.  
  
I see him in the corner, reading.  
  
Suddenly everything comes back to me, in painful awareness.  
  
"We recovered the intel I gave to you two years ago." His head snaps up. "About the Hughlett- Garner building. It was accurate."  
  
Savanoff's eyes slowly show recognition. His mouth curves up in a slight smile, one full of contempt. "The young one. 'Mr. Sark.'"  
  
He is unarmed, I tell myself- unarmed and helpless. "Apparently the failure to recover the weapons. was due to your own men's incompetence."  
  
"Perhaps. The matter was a trivial one."  
  
"Trivial enough to have caused the death of an innocent woman." It is somewhere between a question and an accusation.  
  
"I stand by what I said before. Children should not be allowed to meddle in adults' business."  
  
In one swift movement I draw out my gun and pull the trigger.  
  
He slumps down. His book falls from his hands and drops to the floor. His eyes are wide open.  
  
Scarlet runs from the wound, down his forehead, and disappears under his beard.  
  
But I am not a child.  
  
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I turn to go. My features are the same- blond hair, blue eyes, slightly crooked lower lip.  
  
But so different.  
  
It is not Andrew Ellison.  
  
Only a stranger. The stranger I have become.  
  
The stranger I will live with for the rest of my life.  
  
End  
  
A/N: So, what do you think? This was my first fan fic and regardless of how short it seems, it took FOREVER to write and plan. Review, s'il vous plait, and I will love ya for it. Thanks for reading! 


	5. Final AN

One last note.  
  
This was a total AU. Since then I've changed my opinion on Sark's background, so this is just a warning that Scarlet isn't related to another of my current or future fics. Thanks : ) I hope you enjoyed it. 


End file.
